our boots, they hit the ground
by Annie Blythe
Summary: A snapshot of Nick and Andy's friendship, as they navigate post-Dakota territory. Hints of Gail/Nick and Andy/Sam, with spoilers for the Season 4 promo. Oneshot.


_Author's Note:_ The following oneshot is based on my inability to conceive Andy and Nick as anything but best buds. This story is a brief glimpse into their rapport— No romantic trappings of any kind. It's inspired by the S4 promo, for which I have tried to assemble a timeline: Nick has been twice-punched (at the close of Dakota and after his return to the barn), and he and Gail are on the outs. Andy has been on-shift since her return, and is well-aware of Marlo/Sam. She acknowledges the possibility that she will be returning to short-term UC in the near future (where I presume she will later be knocked out/go missing), and at that time, Sam will go a little... rogue. It's speculative, and largely unimportant. The focus here is friendship!

An enormously special thanks to recent readers and reviewers. I've haven't been able to spare much time for FF lately, but I am incredibly grateful for your opinions. Thank you so much!

This scene takes place a week or two after Dakota's wrap-up.

**DISCLAIMER:** I own neither _Rookie Blue_ nor the lyrics of Gaslight Anthem.

* * *

**when our boots, they hit the ground, they made a high and lonesome sound.**

* * *

He's down by the water when she finds him: dark hair against a darker sky, and the look of a man who has seen better days.

(She needed only to recall one conversation to deduce his location.)

"Heyo, sailor."

Her words are a murmur of a greeting, an unspoken question tempered with a note of sympathy. The soft pitch is familiar, this tone she'd adopt late_-late _at night, after debrief and dinner and poker, her bare legs haphazardly slung across the sofa as a young Ted Danson sauntered across the TV screen. For five and a half months, Breckin Avenue was the only world they knew: Blurred, broken whispers between the bed and the hideaway, everything quiet and still around them, the weight of every choice looming in the dark—

"That ship has sailed," he acknowledges lightly. "Pretty sure my tags tell a different story."

His voice soon falls flat, any trace of humor eliminated by his stiff posture. Flexing his arm, he tosses a rock toward the water. "Besides. I prefer the rugged terrain of the Hindu Kush."

"Shame," she offers casually, tilting her head. Her eyes follow the trajectory of the stone, gaze steady on the blue-black water. "I know Dov's the hipster of the group, but if anyone could pull off a nautical-themed pashmina afghan—"

(She waits for the usual interjection: A joke about Poseidon; something about how well he climbs buoys. She remembers how good he was at easing the tension; how he could turn her mood around with a few words; reduce her to side-splitting giggles. Christmas had prompted a case of the undercover blues, which he had remedied almost immediately with some allegedly innocent whistling: _Wish you would step back from that ledge, my friend_...)

She shuffles her feet, eyeing him carefully.

Two, three long beats —

(The joke doesn't come.)

"Well," she transitions awkwardly, threading her hands in front of her. "We'll have you yacht-ready by the summertime, anyway."

He shrugs. The motion is empty, this cavalier attitude so unlike Nick it hurts.

(They've changed, the two of them, and she shivers with the realization. Changed more than they could have ever anticipated.)

"What, uh. Brings you to Cherry Beach?"

His words echo in the air, the last three syllables carried on a quiet exhale. He tosses another rock aimlessly. Andy watches as it sinks, the water rippling gently around it.

She feels, more than sees, the hard _click_ of his jaw; anticipates the thin, grim smile that will immediately follow. Paired with his Army-issue set of shoulders, tense and at attention, that wry, curled lip is the only indication he's about to lose it.

"Nick," she begins quietly, voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

* * *

Shadows cast across his face, bright colors of neighboring shops and twinkly strands of light.

His hands remain fisted close to his body, but his shoulders visibly relax.

(They've gotten good at this, reading each other—)

He takes a ragged breath, schooling his features before turning. She drags her eyes up to meet his gaze.

"Face looks better," she offers tentatively, by way of greeting. "Less Crayola 64."

He shakes his head, and it's the closest to a grin she's seen out of him all week. "Well, that's some comfort. Still got my looks."

"That, and you take your punches like a man." She flashes a smile toward the night sky. "Well. Maybe less like a man the second time around. But your face was already pretty banged up, so I'm willing to give you a pass."

He huffs out a laugh, quiet and tinged with a trace of regret. "Yeah."

Slowly, he turns back to the water. She follows in his wake, gently bumping his shoulder.

"Week from hell," he mutters quietly. "I didn't know coming home would be this hard."

She moves closer, wrapping her hands around her bare arms for warmth. "Me neither. I—"

Her mouth opens and closes comically as she pauses, searching for the right words.

"I'm sorry about everything with Gail."

"Hell hath no fury..." he trails off wryly, wincing. His fingers scrub through his hair restlessly. "The worst part is I get it. I get why she's shutting me out. From her perspective, she has no reason to _trust_—"

He breaks off suddenly. A minute passes, then two.

"I left," he continues, "And I didn't tell her, and it's not like I have a great track record in that department." He swallows, obviously exasperated. "I thought she'd be in Europe, you know? And Callaghan made a big deal about needing a guy from a military background, and I thought..."

"Goddammit." His voice drops to a low murmur. "I was going to miss her anyway, and I _thought—_"

"I know," she affirms softly, though it's of little consolation. She grasps his fingers, squeezing tightly before releasing them. "I know, Nick."

He clears his throat once, then twice.

(It's a dismissal, but she knows him well enough to recognize it's about _him_, about figuring out his own head first.)

* * *

He spins comically on his heel.

"And you, Scrappy Doo? How've you been holding up?"

"Fit as a fiddle," she maintains, squaring her shoulders. "Trace and I have been running a few days a week. I finally feel like I can chase down a perp without my chest cavity exploding, so. You know. Progress."

Nick narrows his eyes in a way that, Andy thinks, reaffirms how he stood toe-to-toe with Gail for all those years. It's annoying and inspiring in the same breath.

"I think I screwed up," she finally admits, her words careful and deliberate. Her gaze stays locked on her feet. "I mean— _God_, I _know_ I screwed up. I know now that I could have handled it better."

She chances a glance in his direction. "But I can't regret taking that op. I know we didn't get all the big fish, but we got some of them. And that makes it worth it. Forget proving something to myself - or even proving something t_o him_ - that fact that Deacon and his crew are a testimony away from a hefty sentence? Makes it worth it. There's a lot more families that can sleep easy at night, and that makes it..."

"Yeah," he drawls softly.

"Whatever else..." Her voice fades as she watches the waves lap the sand. "That makes it count."

(She tries not to dwell on the _whatever else_, the image seared in her brain: The break room and his slow, easy smile as he curved a hand around Cruz's waist.)

"We're talking," she says suddenly, hopping gingerly toward the water. "I mean, we're friends. _Nice work, McNally; see you at the Penny; don't get shot at again_-type friends. We can be friends, definitely."

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. "Maybe."

Clearing her throat, she fiddles with her wristwatch. "I think."

"He got me a coffee two days ago," she says, memory of the exchange spinning in her head. "I mean, he got a coffee for Trace, and I was helping her out with a case, so it's not like he went out of his way, which is fine; I wouldn't want him to, but..."

She takes a breath. "Despite my rambling, I'm actually okay. And I will be okay. I'm not crumbling to pieces, I promise."

Raising her gaze to meet his eyes, she nods encouragingly.

"I promise."

* * *

The silence that follows is companionable, only broken by Nick's out-loud musings.

"Well, you're prettier."

He keeps his focus on the stars above them, but Andy can hear the smile in his voice.

"I mean, odds are she's an excellent cop - I haven't seen her in the field yet - but you're prettier. And younger. So."

She laughs then, a free, open belly laugh. "Yeah, _okay_. Thanks buddy."

"It's true," he protests, gaze sweeping to hers. He points his index finger dramatically. "If weren't so taken with caustic blondes, I might even find you—"

"_Stop_," she interrupts, shoving at his arm. She cocks a brow and waves her index finger threateningly. "Not even to cheer me up, _bud_."

"What?" he yelps, grabbing at his arm and feigning hurt. "And here I thought I was being nice."

"Impossible," she replies primly, pursing her lips.

"You say that now, McNally, but if I were really trying...? I could charm the pants off you."

"Impossible," she repeats, her mouth twisting in a wicked grin. "Besides, I'm going big this time around. Professional athlete; multi-billionaire businessman. I tend to attract the workaholic types, anyway."

"Whatever," he says, elbowing her lightly in the stomach. "I like mine with a little more bite, anyway."

She lets that remark slide by, shaking her head.

"To be honest, I'm, um. Thinking about doing some mixed martial arts training. Figure it can't hurt with the hand-to-hand combat, especially—" she breaks off with a pointed look at his black eye —"Well, after last time, Rocky."

"Maybe I'll go back under," she continues at long last, shrugging. "Short-term. Or _shorter-term_, I guess. I mean, we did okay, right?"

He turns to her, thoughtful. "That really what you want to do?"

"We could both go," she says, just to vocalize the sentiment. "Who knows? Maybe next time will get more of the 'hail the conquering heroes' deal."

"Why would we wanna leave?" he deadpans, furrowing his brow. "Batting a thousand in the relationship department, the two of us."

He glances down at her, eyes widening in a false display of amazement. "Unless this is about _me_...? Andy, I am _touched._"

The corners of her mouth twitch dangerously. "You're right. Cocky bravado is charming these blue jeans right off me. Smooth, Collins."

"I can read between the lines," he assures her knowingly. Clapping her on the shoulder, he draws his eyebrows together seriously. "I know how hard it would be for you without me."

"Mmm," Andy hums noncommittally, shaking off his hand. "Yup. Nail on the head."

"Besides, I'd be devastated if you took another partner."

"That right?" she counters. "Well, in good conscience, I couldn't allow that to happen."

She presses her lips together, trying valiantly to keep her features stoic. "You're too much of a softie already, and I love you too much to let you wallow in the depths of despair."

"Never have such tender words been spoken," he observes solemnly. Pressing a hand to his heart in mock-earnestness, he swallows, the corners of his mouth curving upward. "Just to be sure I have this straight: What you're saying is..."

"You _love_ me?"

She cocks a single-brow in challenge. "What I'm _saying_ is... I love you enough to get your sorry ass off this godforsaken beach."

She tilts her head in the direction of his bike. "C'mon. I have a bottle of single-malt and I DVR'd the _Celebrity Apprentice_. If history serves me correctly, any season with Lil Jon's commentary is bound to be hilarious."

As they approach the parking lot, it's a friendly arm that drapes across her shoulder. No sparks or hearts or butterflies, but it's familiar. Comfortable.

"If my Bogart didn't suck so badly, I'd say this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

She grins in spite of herself. "I'll buy you a BuddyBand. Make you wear it in homeroom," she promises, the smile affixed to her face. "We'll say the pledge for old times' sake."

"Good," Nick maintains. "Now fill me in on the _Apprentice._ How many episodes are we behind? Five? It's a catch-up game now."

She nods, giving his torso a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Got a lot to catch up on, copper."

Her eyes scan the horizon, focused on something in the distance. "Now seems as good a time as any to start."

* * *

_A/N: By the by, if anyone would like to come into my corner and talk about how great Gail Peck is, do let me know. Her reaction to "You're a terrible person," has just reaffirmed how much I've missed her ;)_


End file.
